


He Will Rise Once More

by Shepromisedmenothing



Category: Bleach
Genre: Gen, Working with the sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:03:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shepromisedmenothing/pseuds/Shepromisedmenothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the sickness can pierce deeper than the blade of an enemy. Ukitake is tired of sleepwalking through life, and he is ready to live again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Will Rise Once More

**Author's Note:**

> First story on here, and I actually like this a lot. It's pretty short, but I figured I shouldn't stray too far away from the basics. Drop me a line and tell me a thing or two if you'd like.

There are days when he thinks there is nothing beyond this.

The man lies there, still, white hair splayed and large eyes colorless as they gaze aimlessly into nowhere. That, he decides silently, is the direction in which this somber life of his seems to be headed—nowhere, and at a painfully slow rate at that.

His fate is sealed and confined by the restrictions of his bedroom, where comfort is like a child's fairytale: too good to be true, and too cruelly intangible to grasp. He's too old for fantasy anyway.

Wouldn't it be lovely if he'd just choke on his own respiratory fluids and die? Or maybe mucus could proceed to flood his lungs at night during miserable slumber? The possibility of one of his attacks killing him is not too farfetched, especially when knowing that at least half of the liquid that finds its way to his handkerchief is red and thick. It's not as honorable a death as one on the battlefield, but that has become more and more of a distant aspiration than a legitimate possibility. 

He wishes to lie a little longer, but the slanted rays of sunlight will soon breach the shutters of his quarters—and nothing is worse than waking up to blinding light and congestion. He, being acquainted with such unpleasantries, knows this better than anyone. 

But, then again, getting up will take effort. It might also require exertion and reserves of energy that take all too much time to muster. Yesterday morning resulted in endless coughing fits, and the fire in his throat today reminds him that repeating the same events will not benefit his well being. Or, what is left of it. 

And so, this is the routine life that he endures. If life promised anything more than lying in bed until the sun peaked, he has forgotten. If there was a greater victory than successfully stifling a sneeze or two, he is oblivious. 

Daybreak greets his window, yet he is not hungry. Better to keep his intake of food to a minimum anyway, since solid foods have a tendency to come back up at the most inconvenient of times. Instead, he settles on preparing himself what any other ill man in Seireitei would. 

Warm tea can solve any problem, after all. That was what he used to believe when he was young and vibrant like the sun herself. Perhaps all that it will take is a sip of tea to melt the disease residing in his heart.

Wishful thinking.

While some spent their mornings indulging in breakfast pastries and intriguing conversation, the captain of the thirteenth did nothing of the sort. When he finally makes the effort to shuffle into his kitchen (somehow keeping from coughing up any vital organs) there are no guest to greet him, just as there are no fancy breads awaiting him at his traditional low table. Everything is untouched. A lone porcelain cup, a single mat on the wooden floor, a rack by his sink, where various pots and wooden spoons hang—all for no real purpose, really. If one were to acquire enough interest to peer into the depths of one of those pots, they might find a speck or two of dust. He absorbs it—the loneliness of home. 

So as he lifts the kettle from its burner and fills his glass, he's taking in the chamomile aroma and breathing in the taste because this is probably the most excitement he will have the chance to indulge in today. He lets the heat tickle his nose and waltz atop his sense of smell before the cup can even touch his lips, but just as he makes the movements to do so, a sudden notion falls upon him. 

A toast.

The last time he has participated in one was when he was young and life still had promise. It seems so long ago, and he finds himself impressed that he still remember what exactly a toast is. 

Soreness seethes in his limbs and spreads like gasoline as he moves his arm. He can see the muscles that shift and twitch underneath the veil of his skin. It is near translucent, but that does not bother him. 

How kind, he thinks, at least the pain is lenient today. He lifts his beverage high, ignoring the pain for the first time in all his life, alone except for the ever present hustle of shinigami past these walls. There is a quivering in his throat as it strains to make sound, and when it finally does, its not the familiar voice he expects to hear. It doesn't sound like him. All that leaves his lips is the echo of a hoarse whisper.

"Cheers," he croaks, "to staying alive." 

And his swollen throat constricts against the warm liquid as he swallows it down, just as he has all the harsh realities of being alive in this world.

But that's how he's always gotten along, really.

As the last droplets of tea sting and trickle down his throat, he falls to his knees, resting his head on the table before him. He cannot imagine how the others would react upon seeing him like this. And how brutally, pray tell, would Kyoraku ridicule him? None of the captains have ever witnessed him in such a pitiful state, and they never shall. 

The only Ukitake they know is the man whose smiling eyes glow with the warmth of a hearth. Smiling, he remembers, is the best way to assure others that all is well. Because nothing, nothing is worse than having them worry. Familiar faces everyday, concern on their lips, asking, "How is it?" as if speaking of his circumstances aloud is something forbiddingly treacherous. "Feeling alright today? Shouldn't you be resting? Are you sure you can lead your division like this?"

He allows the memories of their words to dissipate into the silence of his house. Truthfully, he is grateful for the kindness, but he doesn't know what to make of the impending doubt he hears in the daily questions. Over the years, he has perceived the transition from concern to pity, and he can swear by the life of him that it will not go unpunished.

Could they be mocking him in secret? Do they mean to pressure him into resignation? Even now, he can imagine Kyoraku and the other captains congregating somewhere, partaking in lively discussion about how much of an utter fool he was for believing that he could continue to lead the thirteenth, not to mention continue to work as Shinigami, of all things...

He wheezes. The guiding railroads of his thoughts are switching too fast for him to follow. Maybe if they slowed down enough he could jump off and escape the collision in waiting. No, that would be too forgiving. Life never works out that way anyway.

"Sōgyo no Kotowari?" 

For a moment he thinks he's forgotten the name, or perhaps he's mispronounced it, because there is no immediate reply. He waits, but there is nothing. When he twists his neck to face his sword, it bears no response, gloriously silent where it stands in an elevated glass chamber. He tries to enter the world of his Zanpakuto through his thoughts, but it is as if the connection has been severed, and all that is left is a flatline. It is like this with every attempt, but the hurt intensifies with every failure. 

"Please, Sōgyo no Kotowari. Won't you speak with me?"

They are rejecting his request. Disappointed, probably, to have a weak master unworthy of their power. Maybe even ashamed. And he cannot blame them at all. Why, if the positions were switched, he would probably act the same way. 

This is why he must stay in solitude. If even his Zanpakuto has discarded all faith in him, then he should expect everyone else to do the same in time. 

He can trust nothing but the lonely rhythm of his breath, and even it seems to falter or hitch on occasion. That leaves silence. Yes, he will confide in the silence, and it swears to keep his secrets. 

"I think I will sleep for a while."

But he knows there will be no more sleeping for him. He is tired of sleeping. On the contrary, he is ready, waiting to wake up. Just as soon as the curtain falls on the war inside him, his eyes will open. 

And he will be wide awake.


End file.
